7. Predators
Missing Julian (7 of 13)
(Maria came back to find Julian, among other reasons. Many people are looking for Julian. Every man makes a presence, and their absence leaves a hole. This is the second to last section of Milestone.)
For islanders, the best thing that could be said was that we were good workers. It wasn’t entirely clear what that meant, other than you arrived on time, worked late if you had to, went to a new job site in the afternoon, and kept coming back.
Rick was a good worker.
And he employed good workers.
His crew was spread over three job sites, but they came back from lunch, climbed the ladders, and stayed until the day was done. Rick missed deadlines in a reasonable way, the walls remained up, and the wiring didn’t light on fire.
We admired his work. He finished each house with a special whirl-a-gig that he made. He or Maria would affix it to the chimney as a last touch, and then welcome the new owners.
But.
We didn’t recognize too many of the crew he worked with. They ate rice and beans for lunch while they sat in the shade. The music they played wasn’t on our radios. They wouldn’t meet your eyes.
The work was plumb, straight, and water-tight.
But couldn’t he have found room for a few regular islanders?
Rick walked over the two-by-fours in the attic of a house on Wood Hollow Road. They would be finished within the week. In the heat of the attic, Rick checked the studs.
Another man climbed the ladder and stood in the darkness by the chimney.
“Can I help you?” The contractor studied the nails.
“I was wondering if I could help you.”
“What can you do?” Rick did not look over.
“I can get rid of rats.”
Rick stopped and listened to the voice. It was friendly, but not familiar. Foreign, but smooth.
“Rats won’t be a problem until next winter, when the kitchen is stocked.”
“I am referring to the rats who attacked your daughter.”
Rick stopped.
“What do you know about that?”
“It’s a small island.” The man said.
The itch flourished in the back of his mind.
“Well…”
“It is hard for a father. Hard for a man.”
“Who are you?”
“We have a similar problem.”
“I have no problems.”
“I catch rats. They disappear.”
“I don’t want a problem.”
“Me neither. I solve problems. Come to the Chicken Box tomorrow night. Come at seven. You’ll see someone with a lollipop. Not me.”
Rick peered into the warm darkness. The man waved, then slipped down the ladder.
That night, Sergeant Danny Abraham was very happy to see the Inspector and Pip walk out of his house. Pip paused beside an elm tree and left a promise that he would return.
Once settled and belted, the Inspector sighed out a column of Scotch.
“Nice to see things are back to normal.”
“Your sarcasm game is strong.”
“Well, I am riding with Johnny Walker.”
Coffin nodded.
“What are the chances we can go wait by the windmill?”
“What are we waiting for?”
“A boy.”
“Nope,” Sergeant Abraham responded. “I am going to let you sleep it off in our normal place.”
Coffin nodded.
“Are we going to be visited again?”
“I doubt it.” The car moved in the warm dark.
“What happened this morning?”
“Two old men had a frank and cordial conversation with the help of a high school dropout who has, somehow, learned Portuguese.”
“Will wonders never cease?”
“Apparently not.”
The annoyance in his partner rose up between them, even through the Scotch fog.
“What would you like to know, Danny?”
“Where is the boy?”
“Dad believes he is alive.”
“Does he know that?”
“No.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him about our progress on the case.”
“What didn’t you tell him?”
“Names.”
Danny nodded. At least the Inspector held that back.
“He wanted to help us in our search.”
“I bet he did.”
“He gave me a lollipop.”
“Not a Krugerand?”
“No.”
“Henry, the man I saw with you today, was missing his right hand and walked as if he were missing toes.”
“I saw that.”
“And he has Krugerands.”
“At least one.”
“Steven is scared of him.”
Coffin sighed. That was true.
The car moved in a stately and gentle procession until it came to rest in the shadow of the lifesaving museum. The overcast drowned the night in darkness.
Once the car was parked, Danny removed his cell phone from his pocket.
On his phone, the sergeant Googled “Brazil. Drugs. Criminal. Lollipop.”
Then, after a moment, he handed the phone to his partner so he could read who the one-handed man had been.
He had earned the name Lollipop.
The popular press named him that after what they discovered in the mouths of the men he had killed.
It wasn’t candy.
Julian.
Maria stared out the window. The windmill stood dark against the night sky. He had stood at the top of the mill once. He had put his arms over his head, triumphant in the night.
It had only been less than a month ago.
Maria focused on that one good night when she had told him. It had been warm, it had been starry, and his hands were on her tummy. She put her hands over her belly, where his hands had been, and saw him again, atop the mill.
There was another truth.
When she reached out with her heart, she didn’t sense anything. She didn’t feel him. In the depth of her heart, she didn’t hear him out. Maria knew, in a place that had no words, that he wasn’t on this side of the dirt.
She had seen him swim away.
All that was left of Julian was multiplying inside her. Maria was too tired to be angry or outraged. Too much had happened.
The Inn on Brant Point (Novella)
Milestone 1: The Boy Who Climbed the Windmill
Milestone 2: Remember
Milestone 3: Snitches Get Stitches
Milestone 4: Survival Ain’t Pretty
Milestone 5 Missing Julian
Chapter 2: He’s Missing
Chapter 4: A Word to the Wise
Chapter 5: Lollipop
Chapter 6: Truths without words
Chapter 7: Predators
Chapter 8: A Warning in the Night
Chapter 9: Good Man. Would Act
Some of my writing…
Barr’s For Life: A substack of essays and claptrap
The Boat at the End of Lover’s Lane
(NEW) The Girl Who Ran the Polpis Road
The Inn on Brant Point (Novella)
Her Lover on Monomoy Road. (Novella)
Her Father Came Home to Deacon’s Way (Novella)
Love Letters (Novella)
The Fisher King (Novella)
The Costs of Faith (Novella)
Winter: A Collection of Island Living Essays set between January and April 1.
The Boys: A collection of essays about my two sons, written as they grew.
Rolling in the Surf: Essays on Teaching.
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One of the things I have learned to accentuate is "not" describing things. What does Lollipop stuff in his victims mouths? All of us can figure that out. But naming and describing it ruins the effect. Instead, by leaving it unsaid, the imagination of the reader becomes complicit in the crime. We can put an image, and a word, to it. The horror exists in ways that we understand but won't put words to, unless we are Rosie.